Roses are Red
by Marian.Locksley
Summary: A one-shot about why Erik leaves the rose on Christine's grave. "Red. Everything is red - the rose, her lips, the blood..."


**Dedication: This story is dedicated to Doxophobia because she was crazy enough to let me watch this film with her even though she knew what would happen. Thanks XXX**

Red. Everything is red- the rose, her lips, the blood. Countless dead, by my hand, my mind; all because I did not, could not, understand why they should live. Why should they stand there, proud against the sky? While I –foolish child – lay dirty and alone, below the cold dark earth. Why should their callous eyes and minds looks upon my form with fear and revulsion? What gave them that right?

But she did jot fear me, did not turn away – she let me in. Angel of Music she called me, angel. How ironic perhaps that from devil I had become angel: from loathed to loved. For the first time in my life there was someone there for me. But too long had I been shunned, turned away from those around me. Too long had I been alone. I did not know what love was.

I knew hate, yes that I knew. But love? No, love was new, and it scared me. Her voice, I told myself I loved her voice, but now I know this to be false. I loved her; her eyes, her body, her mind, her heart. But all those, and more, would be denied me.

Her eyes, once full of trust, now full of that selfsame fear that had been in every face, every glance, since the day I was born. Her mind, weak, human – held by the confines of a society to which I could never belong. Her body, which I longed to touch, to feel. Kept from me, from the contamination that would be brought upon it by my hideous form. And her heart, of all things it was that which I longed for, but it belonged to another.

She loved a human; this I never was, in face, form or heart, even my mind soared above theirs. Maybe none of it would have mattered, maybe I would have understood, if only my heart had been human. But it was not, it was as cold as rock, a freezing block of ice planted within my chest, unable to feel, unable to comprehend what feeling was. Besides, her heart never answered mine, for what heart can love what it pities? What heart can love one like me, a poor desolate creature of the night?

So I clung to her voice, as a drowning man may cling to a piece of wood. In music I became whole, no longer a strange hideous monster, but part of a great glorious whole. Her voice, my life line to the light, so as much as I was her angel, she was mine. But that is all gone, the music, the voice, it is all dust, blowing in wind, alone, always alone.

She was my only hope at humanity, my only chance to be anything, anyone, other than feared. Feared and loathed. Even they said I was not human, that I couldn't be, how could any man be that cruel? But it was they that drove me to it. I did not relish in blood, I am not the type of animalistic being who needs it. But a death, no matter how small, reminds me that I still have life. I have nothing else, light, warmth, love, none of these, but death? Death is with me always, and that is why I kill.

I often think of her, the way she looked at me, and I think it was that, not the kiss, that broke me. I would have killed him, Raoul, what was he? A small insignificant life, nothing that couldn't be replaced. But in those eyes I saw such pity, such compassion, I broke. She loved him, just as I loved her, and she needed him. Perhaps in time she could have loved me. She could have taught me heart to feel, to breath, so that I could walk amongst men like equals, back straight and proud. Besides, what matter if she did not? She was still my prisoner, and as long as I kept her she would never see the light. But she would never respect me- never truly. Deep down there would always be that resentment, that fear.

So I let them go, away from me, from this cold dark cell which was once my home. – I set them free. But now she is dead, and all I have is a rose. Every day, every month, every year. A single red rose tied with a black ribbon, to show that I am still alive, that, no matter how hopeless it is. No matter that she will never know: I still love.


End file.
